My First Solo Art Show

Workers

I have not always been concerned with social class although I have been aware of social distinctions most of my life; but until recently, I was largely unaware of the effect that class has had on my every-day existence.  Growing up in a largely middle class community in the western suburbs of Chicago I had always just assumed that I belonged to the middle class.  We had all of the material luxuries; a house in a nice neighborhood, more than one car, my dad rode a motorcycle, we had a camper and took family vacations, we had decent clothes, went to good schools, went to church... your basic living-the-American-dream suburban lifestyle.  Yet, looking back, there always seemed to be significant social differences between me and most of my peers in school and church.  I believe one of the biggest differences was that my father turned a wrench for most of his working career while most other dads worked in an office.  Did that mean that we were working class?  Is “working class” a bad word? Was I excluded from the middle class without being aware?  

Over his career my father was able to work his way into sales and eventually upper management on a high school diploma.  As he moved up in his career, our family moved up in our accumulation of status symbols but, did it really matter what we owned or where my father worked?  Is that what social class is really about?  Where did we fit in? What are the indicators of social class?  How are social distinctions in our culture defined, what are the lines?  How does social mobility work?  Can we ever truly be socially mobile?  How do people in our culture identify themselves within the American caste system?  What is the history of that system?  Is there a system at all?

Workers explores the issue of social class using arts-based research as a method of inquiry.  The artwork in this show is based on memories of my family, their stories and our shared experiences in work, life, and relationships.  There is also considerable influence from both scholarly and popular literature that is concerned with issues of social class in our country.

The central figure in Workers is a representation of a working class stereotype, an idealized form that represents “the worker” and relates some of the assumed characteristics of a working class existence from my personal experiences and the experience of others.  The drawings are based on my interpretation of past events in my life; memories, wishes, and people who are important to me.  The formless faces connote the individual but never give the individual an actual identity... for instance, if the power goes out, we call ComEd and report the outage, an hour later the power comes back on and we go on with our daily lives.  What we take for granted is the person who actually went into the wires and sorted everything out; for us that person has no name, no face, just the result.  We don’t know who the person who actually went out and fixed the problem is; and usually we don’t care- someone did it.

Social class is multidimensional and encompasses political, religious, gender and racial issues.  Workers will not be able to address these issues in full; instead it will concentrate on social class while keeping in mind that there are many forces that shape our experience.  These forces inevitably make an appearance in the work and have a say in the direction the project moves. Workers is only a start; it is an effort to gain a better understanding of social class, how we live together, and how we can make our shared experiences more meaningful.  After all we are in this world together.

Solo Show

I will be putting on my first solo art show in June.

Here are some of the announcement cards. 

dad worked hard

I can't wear my wedding ring anymore.  I was climbing down a ladder in the back of the plant and the guy above me stepped on my finger,  the pressure crushed the ring onto my finger and cut off the circulation.  C.J. had to cut the ring off with a pair of snips, I thought I was going to lose it, my finger that is.  I keep the ring in my wife's jewelry box now.

The Regal

Participate

     My father took a business trip to the east coast one year and he took the whole family along on the trip.  We had stopped in Philadelphia the same weekend that Bruce Springsteen was in town touring for  Born in the U.S.A.  Of course there was no way we were going to get tickets but we went to the stadium anyway and sat outside in the parking lot.  We must have heard half the concert sitting on the bumper of the Buick.  My dad bought a couple of hoagies from a vendor, we had dinner and some entertainment.  I have never seen Springsteen in concert but I have heard him live in the parking lot in Philadelphia.  That was one of the best nights of my life.  

Working

Weekends are for the wealthy... it gives them a chance to come into where we work in the middle of the day and rub it in that they get two days a week off and they still have more money than us.

Surrounded

I have to leave for work in an hour.  I don't want to go.  I keep telling myself that I have an easy job, and I do. But that doesn't change the fact that I don't want to go.  It's not that I don't want to work at all, I just want a job that is challenging; a job where I am treated like a participant rather than a fixture.  Sitting in that booth makes it all seem like it is on TV... you're not looking in at me, I am the one watching you.  I see the day unfold and move into the night and the night fall back into the day.  I see everything and I hear everything.  I know  every shadow and every corner.  I have been here too long.  I am wiser and older than I seem.  Common sense isn't common and common courtesy is even less.  You get to leave and I have to stay.  It is a small space, please don't fart.

Venus

Ideal

Studio Space

It's Where We Come From

Harvest

Dad

I have not always been concerned with social class; I have been aware of social distinctions most of my life but, until recently, I was largely unaware of the effect that class has had on my every-day existence.  Growing up in a largely middle class community in the western suburbs of Chicago I had always assumed that I belonged to the middle class, we had all of the material luxuries; a house in a decent neighborhood, more than one car, my dad rode a motorcycle, we had a camper and took family vacations, had decent clothes, went to a nice school, went to church... your basic living-the-American-dream suburban lifestyle.  Yet, looking back, there always seemed to be significant social differences between me and my peers in school and church.  I believe one of the biggest differences was that my father turned a wrench for most of his working career while most other dads worked in an office.  Did that mean that we were working class?  Is “working class” a bad word? Was I excluded from the middle class without being aware? 
Over his career my father was able to work his way into sales and eventually upper management on a high school diploma.  As he moved up in his career, our family moved up in our accumulation of status symbols but, did it really matter what we owned or where my father worked?  Is that what social class is really about?  Where did we fit in? What are the indicators of social class?  How are social distinctions in our culture defined, what are the lines?  How does social mobility work?  Can we ever truly be  socially mobile?  How do people in our culture identify themselves within the American caste system?  What is the history of that system? 
I would like to explore the issue of social class using arts-based research as a method of inquiry.  I would like to interview other people and learn about their experiences with social class.  I will photograph them and their environment; these photographs coupled with co-created literature documenting our conversation will serve as evidence to gain a better understanding of how people identify themselves (consciously or subconsciously) with a social class.  
Along with the photographs and writing, I want to explore my own experiences by continuing to develop and incorporate a body of drawings I have been creating that is based on memories of my family, their stories and our shared experiences in work, life, and relationships.  The central figure in these drawings is a representation of a working class stereotype, an idealized form that represents “the worker” and relates some of the assumed characteristics of a working class existence from my personal experience.  The drawings are based on my interpretation of past events, memories, wishes, and people who are important to me.  The formless faces connote the individual but never give the individual an actual identity... for instance, if the power goes out, we call ComEd and report the outage, an hour later the power comes back on and we go on with our daily lives.  What we might sometimes take for granted is the person who actually went into the wires and sorted everything out; for us there is no name, no face, just the result. 
Social class is a multidimensional issue encompassing political, religious, gender and racial issues.  This project will not be able to address these issues in full; It will concentrate on social class while keeping in mind that there are many forces that shape our experience.  These forces will inevitably make an appearance in the work and eventually will have a say in the direction the project moves. This is a start; it is an effort to gain a better understanding of social class, how we live together, and how we can make our shared experiences more meaningful.

Weekend

Hands...

I Remember...

Workers

Workers

Connection < Disconnection

Is it a memory?  A wish?  The future?

All of the above maybe?

Stuck at Work

Occupation

How did I get here?

My first job was a paper route, I think I was 12.  My route covered the area from Willow street north to the tracks between Chase and Washington.  This neighborhood is an older part of Wheaton, and was always a mixed income neighborhood.  Just south of the train tracks you would find students for Wheaton College and some lower income homes and apartments.  As you move south away from the tracks the income level grows by each street.  

Back in the late 80's when I delivered papers there the neighborhood was mostly older folks, if I had to guess I would say the average age of my customers was about 65.  I helped the people on my route; I mowed the lawn for one of my customers, and once I helped another set up their garage sale.  I usually got pretty good tips on the holidays, most of my customers lived through the depression so they appreciated the plight of the young paperboy trying to earn a dime.  

They weren't all good though, I had one customer spit at me... a grown man spitting at a child.  I got hit by a car while riding my bike to deliver papers on halloween when I was in sixth grade, obviously not on purpose.  I ended up throwing my last bundle of papers into a vacant house down the street instead of delivering them.  

I am not sure how long I had my paper route, couldn't have been more than a year or two.  I don't think they really had paper routes for kids too much longer after I had mine.  It's kind of weird that no one will be sending their 12 year old a couple of miles away to deliver paper to strangers.... wait that isn't weird anymore is it?  What would happen to someone who sent their 12 year old child on a paper route now?  Probably get arrested.

That was the first work experience I got payed for.

It was a valuable experience and one that I am glad I was able to have.

Family Pictures

Mom with Great Grandma and Great Grandpa

My great grandparents immigrated from Germany.  They were farmers in central Illinois.  My grandfather was their youngest child; I was told that he was named after his older brother who died as a child.

Family Pictures

Olan Mills

When I was a kid we would take a family portrait at least once a year.  It was very important to my mom.  Olan Mills popularized a style of family portrait that wound up on the walls of almost every home in America in the 70's, 80's, and 90's.  Every thing had to be just so; the grouping of the people, the placement of a hand, the negative space, the soft gradient background.  You didn't need to see the little gold script seal in the corner to know where it was made.

Looking at the pictures now it is interesting to see us as kids, it brings back good memories.  The standardized way that Olan Mills worked created an affordable memory, a snap shot in time of you trying to look your best.  I remember getting ready for the picture sessions; we all had to get into our Sunday best... if mom was going to take us there and spend the money we were going to look our best.  Waiting in the lobby was like waiting for a doctor, there was redeeming value though in getting to see all of the pictures of other people on the walls... I loved looking at those pictures on the wall...

When they were ready for us we would be ushered into the studio.  Mom would select the backdrop she wanted and they would set up the boxes and the rugs.  The photographer posed everyone, said something stupid to make us smile and snapped the shot.  He replaced the film holder and the process started again.  A week(?) later mom would go see the proofs and pick out the ones she liked.  A couple weeks after that she would pick the prints up and replace the previous portrait in the living room.